So That's How It Is, Then
by Arlia'Devi
Summary: After the Cell Games, a liberated Android Eighteen sets out to seek a normal life - whatever 'normal' seems to be. Estranged from her brother and determined not to get deactivated, Eighteen is wary of anyone who could expose her identity as she navigates a new world and discovers what it means to be truly free. Eighteen/Krillin
1. I: Free

So That's How it is Then

By Arlia'Devi

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z. All rights go to Akira Toriyama and all associates.

Author's note: So, This isn't your typical romance. Of course, this isn't your typical couple. This fanfiction does contain sexual scenes, but they are in line with the guidelines of this website. Eighteen is probably my favourite Dragon Ball Z character ever, and I've never really wrote anything about her, so here it is. Forgive me that this story focuses more on Eighteen than Krillin, but you know, Krillin is maybe a little bit… well, boring. I also haven't written anything for Dragon Ball Z in so long it's really such a shame because I love the character so much! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy because I spent a lot of time on this little number.

I:

Free

The sun set over Kame House, glittering across the vast ocean. It was a beautiful sight, save for the dilapidated old rose-pink weatherboard shack she was to call home. She imagined it completely redone – maybe painted in a soft blue or crisp white with a garden dotted with tropical plants. And she'd be on the beach, relaxing on that white sand with a cocktail in her hand with not a care in the world, and no one to answer to, no one who could tell her what to do. There wouldn't be a human soul in sight and it would be perfect.

But that wasn't this house. This was a collective share house of misfits – unwanted and strange things – an elderly pervert, a talking pig, a monk, a turtle, and now it included her. A formally sociopathic murdering android set on destroying the world, now apparently reformed, domesticated, and coming to live at Kame House. Eighteen huffed. _This had better be worth it._

* * *

 _Two Years Ago_

It was jarring how quickly everything was gone. A single summoning up on Dende's lookout, a few wishes and everything was over. And Goku wasn't coming back, not that she cared. But neither was her brother, and she cared about that.

They'd debated over what to do with the final wish and then he'd piped up about taking the bombs out of their bodies, about letting her lead a normal life despite everything she'd done.

Eighteen had frowned at first – how dare he? She'd given him a kiss on the cheek, and now he was apparently in love with her, or so the scarred man said. What sort of authority did he think he had over her? She wasn't a woman to be claimed or be owned, nor did she owe anything to him. She'd never _asked_ him to save her life, she'd never _asked_ him to use that wish on her.

Still, it was kind of nice of him.

She'd told him that and flown off, even if she hadn't known where she was going at first.

In the desert, the towns were few and far between, the people even more so. The land was dry and the day was hot, but Eighteen couldn't feel traditional pain, let alone heat. She walked the dusty path, hitching when the odd truck came past, flying when she grew bored of taking it slow. But for once in her life, there was no rush to get anywhere.

Late in the afternoon, an old but popular tavern came into view. Though it seemed to be sitting in the middle of nowhere, it was heavily packed. A group of older men whistled as she stepped on the verendah and shouldered her way through the shutters.

The tavern was dimly lit with a long wooden bench and bar and a number of cow hides on the floor. There was car memorabilia – rusted number plates, decorative hubcaps – adorning the wall. _Seventeen would love this place_ , Eighteen thought grimly, sliding into the seat by the bar. It was the first time she'd thought of her brother since he'd disappeared, and it would be the last.

The barman, an elderly man with a bushy ginger-grey beard approached her.

"What can I get for you, little lady?" he asked warmly. "You all by yourself?"

"Yes," she said sweetly, adding an eyelash flutter just to top it off. "And a bourbon would be great."

"Well, sure," he said, taking a short tumbler and filling a fingers-width full before sliding it in her direction. "Here we go."

Eighteen sipped the drink slowly and looked around the bar. There were a few men huddled around a table, writing on a scoresheet. Two men were wallowing over a stein of beer each, and then a few others betting on a horse race by a television. All in all, a dull affair. Eighteen knocked back her drink, not caring for the taste too much, and leaned towards the bartender.

"What are they doing?" pointing to the three men organising a scoresheet.

"Darts comp," he said. "Every Tuesday night. You play?"

"A little," she replied. "Not very well. Is there a prize?"

"Prize money is ten thousand zeni."

Eighteen cut her eyes towards the bartender. "How much to enter?"

"One drink at the bar," he grinned. "Go see 'em. Some of them might not have much skill talking to a lady, but they'd be happy to have a new challenge."

Eighteen slid off her seat effortlessly and sauntered over to the group of men, who had now moved from the desk and began setting up the scoresheet on the chalkboard near the well-worn darts board. She adjusted her denim jacket as she slid into a seat by the darts board.

Getting a bullseye was a simple calculation. Angle and force. There was no drag, nothing to hinder the dart getting her a high score. Eighteen grinned as Jun, a thick man with a deep voice and a round belly, wrote up her name on the chalkboard in bad calligraphy.

"Lazuli," supplied Eighteen, batting her eyelashes and swinging her legs. "Thank you mighty much for letting me play."

"Well, we don't know how much a competition it'll be," said Sisso, who had a long but thin moustache across his top lip and resembled a gangly tree. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

"Gosh," said Eighteen. "Now I don't know about that. So, should we play?"

"We'll do a few practice shots," suggested Jun, handing Eighteen three darts.

Futo, a man who was the bar's reigning champion, stepped away from writing up the scoreboard, dusting his hands of the residue chalk. Eighteen stepped up to the line, making sure to spend time adjusting her feet. In her mind, her eyes made the right measurements and drew up the angles to get a bullseye, told her how much strength she'd need to send the dart flying. But Eighteen blinked the information away, opened her eyes, clear of analysis, and threw the dart with poor force. It didn't even reach the board. It flew from Eighteen's hand, hit the brick to the far left of the target and clattered on the floor.

"Oops!" she laughed. Sisso pursed his lips. Futo laughed a little.

She set up the next shot. This one hit 3 points, but then fell out and hit the floor.

"Better," said Sisso. "Try and really keep your hand steady. And aim with both eyes."

The final practice shot hit the 19 and stayed in strong. Eighteen clapped and whooped for joy.

"Great job!" Sisso clapped. Futo ordered another round with a wave to the bartender.

Eighteen collected her darts and handed then to Jun, who pushed them away.

"We don't need practice," he said. "We'll start the game. You know how to play darts right?"

"01, right?" Eighteen said, sipping on her beer. "First to zero wins."

"Sure, we'll start at 201. We usually do 301, but since you're a beginner, we'll make it a little fairer. Futo here is going to turn pro."

"Thinking about it," Futo corrected with modest shrug.

"No, no," said Eighteen, "Please, don't change on account of me. We'll do 301."

"Alright," said Jun, sauntering his way over to the board, darts in hand. He positioned his feet evenly, held the dart in line with his eyebrow and flicked it once. It flew like a straight arrow, unwavering, and lodged deeply into double eighteen – thirty six points.

Futo then grabbed the chalk and swiped thirty-six off of Jun's 301 score.

"Nice," said Sisso.

Jun scored a nine, and then a triple five after that. Then he handed the darts to Futo. Futo quickly racked up a solid score of fifty-seven, just missing the triple nineteen. Sisso scored terribly. One dart missed the board completely and fell to the floor, making Futo roar with laughter.

"Here," he said dejectedly to Eighteen. "Good luck."

"What's the best score?" she said. "Should I aim for the bullseye? How much will that give me?"

"The green part it'll give you 25. But you really wanna aim for the red bullseye. You'll get 50 points per dart there," said Futo over the lip of his beer.

"So I'd only have to get the red bullseye six times to win."

Sisso scoffed, "And have the best record of anyone in the bar ever. Futo's only ever got three bullseye a game."

"There's no way," Futo said, his hands perched on his hips and a sneer that wasn't so well meaning.

Eighteen flicked her wrist. The dart flew strong and fast and embedded itself into the outside of the bullseye – 25 points.

"Wow!" said Jun, his hand flying up to his forehead. "Great shot!"

"Beginners luck," muttered Futo.

The next dart hit triple 20 and Eighteen clapped and laughed. On her final throw, she scored the double 19.

"That was good, right?" she said, turning around to notice that she'd caught the attention of the whole bar.

"Great," said Sisso. "Wow, I think you may just be a natural!"

"No, no," said Eighteen, taking her seat. "It must be beginner's luck like Futo said."

Futo eyed her. "Where'd you say you were from again, Lazuli?"

"West City."

Jun turned from where he was updating the scores, slashing through Eighteen's old score and doing some quick math. "And what you doing all the way out here?"

She finished her beer and swiped her tongue across her lips. "Tryin' to escape a breakup," she said, smiling coyly. "And you?"

Futo cleared his throat. "Born and bred, ma'am."

Eighteen was tempted to beat Futo's bar record, but that would be a feat for another day. The players would already be suspicious of her having won the competition, let alone if she broke the bar record all in the one go. No, Eighteen would settle for the darts competition now, and maybe she'd play again next week, buy a "round" with the zeni she'd won.

"That was some fine playing, little lady," said the bartender as Eighteen counted her wrinkled winnings. It wasn't anything like she'd been used to getting – sure she could rob a bank and have all the money she wanted, but she'd earned this. She'd won it fair and square. Well. A little. It wasn't like there were any signs that said "no androids allowed".

"Thanks," said Eighteen.

"What'd you say your name was again?"

"Eig-Lazuli," she cleared her throat. "Um, my name's Lazuli. Could I pardon you for a glass of water?"

The bartender reached for a glass, filling it with ice.

"Got somewhere to stay, Lazuli?"

Eighteen shifted. "No." She'd intended sleeping under the stars, far away from where anyone could bother her. Somewhere nice and quiet.

"Desert can get awfully cold out," said the bartender. "We got a room here. Ain't much but it's a room. Could have it."

"How much?" she said.

"Free," said the bartender, handing her a glass of water. "Well, I don't want to say free. How about a few shifts here. They seem to like you here – hell, half of the blokes put bets on you winning tonight. I haven't made so much money on bar for a long time. We're real quiet, you see. You liven things up a bit."

"I'd need money," Eighteen said. "I ain't gonna do it for free."

"You stay in the room, and I'll give you twenty thousand zeni per hour."

Eighteen pursed her lips. She watched the water residue run down the frosted glass and stain the bottom of the paper coaster. Then she shook her head.

"Can't do it," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Well, sure," said the bartender, sighing so heavily his beard fluttered in the exhale. "But maybe we'll see you around. We got darts Tuesday and Sunday nights. Poker on Mondays. Karaoke on Fridays. No one much turns up for the Karaoke."

"Prize money?"

"Ten thousand zeni, just like before."

Eighteen rocked her now-empty glass back and forth. "Might be interesting."

"So you're one of those people huh?" the Bartender said, then he shrugged. "I don't mind really. Make money anyway you can. Long as you don't cheat. And you're good for the bar. If you know what I mean."

Eighteen stood upl. It was late though she'd never noticed how empty the bar suddenly was, how the people slowly trickled out the door and into the cold desert night. There were only a few people on the electronic pokies in the other room. The rest of the bar was dim and quiet. Eighteen dusted off her shirt and jacket.

"I should go," she said. "Thanks for tonight."

"Sure, see you around," said the bartender, drying another glass.

Eighteen nodded, shouldering her way through the door. "See you."

Outside, the night was clear and dark and Eighteen could see everything perfectly. From foxes hunting the rabbit far across the plain, to the approaching headlights of a car. She turned to the bar, but the door had already been bolted shut on her departure.

Running her hand through her hair, Eighteen sighed and began walking down the dusty dirt road again. Only now she was just a little bit richer.

* * *

Two months later, bar was bustling. Eighteen sauntered through the door to the usual crowd. Her memory registered every face automatically - no new patrons. The people out here never strayed too far, they were predictable to a fault, they were pathetic in every kind of way. And they were easy to play. A nibble on her lip was enough to get Crist to send her to the bar with too much for just one round of beers, letting her pocket the rest. Yano only wanted you to pull the knob of his poker machine – blondes are good luck, he'd repeat time-and-time again – and she'd leave with a little more.

Poker was the easiest for Eighteen. Counting cards was like an algorithm she could apply to every game. Did she drop a hand or fold early to keep it believable – of course, she wasn't an idiot. But soon Jun gave up playing with her, and she attracted poker players from taverns close by – winnings went from a ten thousand zeni to a hundred thousand zeni, maybe a little more, and soon she was making big money playing these fools and beating them at their own game. Did she feel bad? No. They came back red-face, angry at being beaten by a girl, with a thicker wad of cash and a angry, dumber mind. These men were fools and she owed them nothing. Soon she'd enough for her to find an apartment somewhere. Something stable.

It was only Tex, the bartender, who she felt any thing close to friendship with. At the end of the night, she'd tip him well for a fingerful of bourbon and she'd drink it with one gulp. It rang up far off memories, hazy like a dream, of her sneaking out and going out on the town with her girlfriends - that buzz from drinking a few cocktails, how she'd laugh in the street late at night and them sneak home, trying not to wake her brother or her parents. Eighteen looked down at the empty tumbler. Those days were gone now. Her parents had died years ago - she'd looked it up. Old, in chronic pain, heartbroken at the loss of their twin children, one with heart problems, they'd barely made eighty. Still, she and her brother still looked youthful and young, barely twenty-one. That was a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

"Lights out, L," said Tex, turning of the bar lights. "Time to hit the hay."

Eighteen slid out of her seat and grabbed her jacket. "Same time tomorrow."

"You play those men too hard," he said. "They're good men, family men."

Eighteen shrugged into her jacket. "They come back angrier and dumber every time. See you."

In the light of the moon, Eighteen counted her winnings on the way to her home - a small cave carved into the side of a stone. In it, a pillow, a blanket, a fashion magazine and a six pack of water bottles. And a small hole which, in a cotton bag, held her winnings. There was no bed, no fridge, and no comforts of home. Eighteen rarely slept on account of the whole unlimited energy thing. She didn't require food to live, only a supply of water to stay hydrated. There was no need for a television - save she or her brother appear on it, nor a shower as she used the shower in the bar, Tex's spare room. There were a few sets of new clothing, folded back into the packaging to keep them clean. Eighteen had her eye on a white lace dress, but in the red desert, it was a bad idea. But still, she could afford these things now. Almost three hundred thousand zeni. Almost enough to buy an apartment. And it was all hers. Clean cash she'd made canvasing bars throughout this godforsaken desert.

She saw the flash of the torch before she saw them, heard the crunch of two sets of boots on the dusty trail away from the bar. Eighteen continued to walk forward, her eyes level and shoulder's straight.

She turned into the bushland that led to her makeshift home and noticed the torchlight follow her into the scrub. She kept her pace and walked off the track, far enough that no one would find them too quickly. Except maybe the coyotes.

She whirled into the torchlight, startling her stalkers.

"Is there some reason you're following me?" Eighteen hissed

Futo sniggered down the barrel of the torch. His shit-eating-grin was plastered across his face. His eyes shined with mischief in the moonlight. "Just got curious. You seem to come in from nowhere, you know. No real story. No real answers. So where you going tonight, Lazuli?"

"Home," she replied.

"There's nothing out here for miles," Jun replied. "No _one_ for miles. Now, we'll be real nice first off. You humiliated us. We know how much you won tonight. Give it to us and we won't leave you here all bloodied up."

"Shame to ruin such a fuckable face," agreed Futo. "You ain't a sweet lass at all. I can tell by your eyes. All calculating and sneaky-like. Like a rat's. Give us the money."

Jun lunged forward for Eighteen, dropping his torch but she dodged him easily, elbowing him in the back and sending him to the ground coughing. Futo grabbed Eighteen by the arms and squeezed tightly, but she kicked upward in a classic ball-shot, making him buckle over in agony. Eighteen took the opportunity to slog him in his shit-eating face.

On the ground, Jun groaned, struggling to get to his feet. Eighteen took him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him close to her face.

"You...bitch," he coughed, wiping at the blood coming from his mouth. "I knew... you were..."

Eighteen brought him close, so it was intimate when she whispered, "I have killed thousands of men the world over with just one hand. What would another two matter? And who would find you before the coyotes did? As you said, there's no one for miles."

Jun shook in fear in her arms. This felt different from before, Eighteen thought. She'd never killed someone who was so helpless against her, and never so close as this. Normally, she wiped clean cities and fields, leaving the earth scarred and barren. But here was a human trembling and sobbing and squirming in her grasp. "

Please, please, we're sorry," Jun sobbed. "Just let us go. We've got families."

"Thought you were going to leave me bloodied," she hissed. A finger lit up with Ki as she dragged it across the sensitive skin of his neck, letting him feel his skin burn and simmer. The smell was sickening.

"Please, please!" Jun said.

"Fourteen Apricot Street, Turnover Town," Eighteen gritted.

"M-my address," Jun muttered, his eyes wide.

"Sweet wife," Eighteen grinned and pulled back her finger. "Get out of here," she said, throwing him into the dirt. "Come back and I will kill you. No one will ever find you."

Jun scuttled to his feet and stumbled over to where a forgotten flashlight was rolling in the dirt. Grabbing it, he turned back to Eighteen, back to where his friend was still trembling on the ground, but she was gone. She was gone and the desert was quiet and still. Falling into the bushes, Jun threw up as Futo got to his feet. He stumbled over to his friend and helped him to his feet before they slowly and sorely made their way back to the bar. Eighteen never went back to that bar, or any others in that dreadful desert. She took her money out of the hole and fled her makeshift home, not knowing where she was going but knowing she needed to get away. But she needed to stay low - they had recognised her, or she was sure they had anyway. It didn't matter. She would stay low. She'd change her name. Eighteen, for the first time in a long time, was free. And she'd be damned if she wasn't going to stay that way.

* * *

Timeline notes: This story begins at the end of the Cell Games, when Krillin wishes out the bombs from the android's bodies. At the end of the games, Trunks is six months old. This is pretty obvious, I hope, but I kinda want to make sure the timeline is right. Also I get confused with the Japanese Yen values, as Toriyama likened the zeni to the same value as the yen, so please forgive any inaccuracies regarding that.

Please take the time to review this chapter before you leave! This story has been completed and just needs a few edits and tweaks, so I'll be updating this on a regular/semi regular basis, so please hit that follow button.

Thanks guys, and see you again soon!

~ Arlia'Devi


	2. II: Anywhere

II

Anywhere

The first car that Seventeen ran into, he'd 'commandeer'. Not steal. He wasn't stealing at all – in fact, the owner was welcome to fight him off for the car, but for the number of times he'd seen him face plastered on the television, and of people doing terrifying double takes, Seventeen didn't think that'd be so much of a problem. Still, keeping his face off the television was the name of the game if he didn't want to be deactivated faster than he could say it. Seventeen frowned. Still, it was better than being turned on and off at the old man's will - still, what was it to be truly free? He could hardly remember anymore.

When a baby blue Volkswagen bug with a woman talking incessantly on the telephone approached him, he resolved to commandeer the second. The second car, only a few minutes behind the bug was an old white pickup.

 _Perfect_ , thought Seventeen, rising up from the rock and walking into the middle of the road.

The pickup slammed on the breaks, skidding forward towards Seventeen. He held his arm out, ready to push the car back as it hit him. The car collided with Seventeen's hand, stopping immediately and rocked back. Immediately, the driver, a broad stout kind of man with a large hat and boots with a fringe, fell out of the pickup and stalked towards Seventeen.

"Whaddaya think you're doing, boy?!" he screeched.

"I'm commandeering this car," announced Seventeen, pushing the driver to the ground and stepping over him. "Your cooperation is appreciated."

"Now wait right here!" cried the driver, stumbling to his feet. As Seventeen climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door, the driver clung to the window as the car started.

"Now you can't do this!" cried the driver. "I'll call the police."

"Call 'em," shrugged Seventeen. "But if you know what's good for you…," Seventeen lifted a hand off the steering wheel, extending his index finger. In a second, the driver was reeling back, holding his hand and screaming out in agony. His severed finger, still steaming from the Ki laser, fell into Seventeen's lap. "You don't want to be go doin' anything."

The driver shook with fear and stumbled back. His hand was dripping with blood. Seventeen, with a look of disgust, threw the finger out the driver's side window like it was a burnt-out cigarette.

"Ya'll have a good day now," he grinned, tooting the horn.

Cruising down the road with the window down, Seventeen fished out the packet of cigarettes from the console and lit up. The radio was tuned to country music, something his sister loathed and Seventeen enjoyed the heat of the draw. He didn't know if the cigarettes could kill him, and the irony of dying by them wasn't lost on him. One of the strongest beings in the universe succumbing to something so trivial – huh, where had he heard that before?

He'd only just gotten on the highway when the 'low' sign by the petrol tank came on. Fuck. He'd run out, and quick, and there was no way he could "commandeer" a new vehicle on the highway without being noticed in some way. Nor did he have the money to pay for more fuel. And he couldn't steal the fuel, that'd only raise more concerns. He knew the Briefs scientist could turn him off and with Goku's kid, Vegeta, and that green guy out there, he didn't want to attract any unnecessary attention.

"Fuck," yelled Seventeen, slamming his hands against the steering wheel.

Taking an exit, he putted into a small town. The houses were old and run down, the streets deserted. He rolled past a huge used car scrapyard. That, at least, looked interesting.

Rummaging through the glovebox of the car, he found the driver's wallet and 200 zeni cash. Pulling up to an old tavern, Seventeen scanned the area. No threats – only a few elderly men drinking inside, and a computer.

Waltzing into the bar, he ordered a beer. No one batted an eye at the request, or his entrance. In his attire, the scarf, ripped jeans and boots, he looked the part. So Seventeen took his beer and slinked over to the computer, slipping in one hundred zeni for half an hour of internet access. As the computer booted up, Seventeen sipped his beer.

And when the browser finally loaded, Seventeen put his beer down, cracked his fingers and typed in, "CRAIGSLIST".

* * *

Eighteen flew high and fast. Her clothes were filthy and she desperately wanted a shower. Her hands were still shaking from her confrontation with Jun and Futo. How desperately she wanted to go back and fight. To kill them. It was hard. This was hard. But she knew if she did, she'd be found out. They'd shut her down, sell her for scrap. Make her something else. The Briefs were as resourceful as Gero, and they probably had use for another slave bot around the house.

No! She could control herself. She was bigger than her programming!

Down below, Eighteen spotted a small town. Figuring it as good a place as any, she landed. It was late and the streets were empty and dim. Down the road, a hotel sign flashed. Rolling her shoulders and pushing her hair behind her ear, she walked towards the lonely hotel.

"How much for a room?" asked Eighteen, entering the cramped reception.

"Four thousand zeni a night," said the receptionist.

"Sure, I'll take it. One night, please." Eighteen pulled out her money pouch.

"Identification?"

"Huh?" she muttered.

The receptionist cleared her throat. "Identification. We can't let you have the room without identification."

"I…," Eighteen hesitated. "I don't have any?"

The receptionist frowned. "No driver's license? Passport?"

"Can I put down a deposit."

"Listen, we can't give you the room for security reasons without ID. I'm sorry, that's just how it is."

Eighteen huffed. She put the money, crinkled and stained, back in her pouch. Then, she noticed the telephone sitting on the desk.

"Listen, can I call someone?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am-,"

"I'll pay for it."

"I really shouldn't," she pressed, but Eighteen saw something give in her eyes. Maybe it was pity. "But there's a public payphone down at the end of the street. I can give you some coins to use it – got 200 on you?"

"Sure, sure," Eighteen huffed, rummaging through her pouch. She produced the note and the receptionist gave her the coins.

Trudging down to the corner, Eighteen shouldered her way into the small box. The telephone was old and rusted over in parts, but worked. Pressing her finger to a button, Eighteen surged her energy through the cables. Then, she pressed in five digits. The call connected.

"Hello?" It was a voice Eighteen had known all her life.

"Seveteen," Eighteen said. "It's me."

"Oh. Right," drawled Seventeen. "Hey sis, how's it going?"

"Not good. I need help."

"So?"

"You still work at that old junkyard, right?"

On the other end, Seventeen huffed and hitched his leg up on the desk. He looked around, but in the junkyard office, no one was around. "Yeah, so?"

"How'd you get that job? I need help. You know a guy right?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Seventeen."

"Yeah, yeah," he shot back. "I know a guy. Listen, give me a week – you want your original name?"

"Yes," Eighteen said. "Wait, didn't you get your original name?"

"Pft, no."

"What?" screeched Eighteen. "What's your name now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Eighteen sighed, her fingers massaging the bridge of her nose. "Listen, can you just leave it… somewhere. Hide it. It's best that we're not seen together."

"No way, shitbrain, I actually like this new job, don't need you to fuck it up."

Eighteen swallowed. "And it's probably best if we don't talk for a while, either."

"So that's how it is, then. Yeah well," Seventeen hesitated. "You'll know where to find me. I'll leave it... in the letter box. Here. Next Sunday. At midday." And then he hesitated. "Need a place to stay until then?"

Eighteen hesitated. She looked at the flickering light of the hotel up the road. "No, I'll be fine.

* * *

Thank you guys for reviewing the last chapter. I am super sorry this chapter is so short - but the next chapter will be coming in the next few days to make up for it. As usual, please leave a review before you go if you like my writing - I am always so happy to hear from you guys and it really makes a difference.

Until next time,

~ Arlia'Devi


	3. III: Disappear

III

Disappear

The worst thing about this whole thing was that Eighteen couldn't get a tan. No, wait. That her hair wouldn't grow - that was the worst thing about this whole thing. All the women in the office had beautiful long locks, and she was stuck with this mistake of a haircut she'd made on a whim however long it was ago. Eighteen sighed. Just another old memory, fuzzy like the edges of an old television.

The temperature was balmy in early may, but in the inner-city parkland, it was cool under the shade of the tree. She was reclining back on the bark, engrossed in a new mystery novel, letting her toes run through and scrunch up the grass beneath her. It was a calm Saturday afternoon, a rare afternoon off from her new job and she'd taken advantage of it - gotten dressed, travelled into the city, went shopping, bought a new book and enjoyed a mineral water by an oak tree. She sighs and shifted down further, her blonde fringe covering over her face. No one seemed to recognise her, and she'd been loathed to cut locks she knew wouldn't grow back. Still... everything was going well.

On the way home, when the sun dipped beneath the skyscrapers, she stopped by the corner market. Eighteen bought three large bottles of water, and then threw a pack of gum up on the cashiers counter at the last minute, flashing the cashier a smirk.

Her apartment was dark when she got home, and cold. Despite being luxuriously modern, it was devoid of almost all furniture. There was no fridge, no television, and only a small lounge. There was a queen size bed, a dresser, a wall-length mirror, and a spare room that had been completely converted into a makeshift dressing room. Transportable coat hanger racks full of designer clothes flooded the room, filled up her bedroom and the lounge room, and where there should have been a dining setting by the window there was a desk, with a large Mac, piles of books on the ground - biographies, and textbooks, and anthologies - and again, more clothes.

The night was long. That was one of the things Eighteen had first discovered, some six months ago when she lived in the desert. The night was long, and usually dull. Not needing to sleep had its advantages, unending energy supply and all that, she'd taken advantage of it many nights in Central City - partying and having a good time, and never feeling it the next morning. But in a lonely apartment in a small city, there were only so many ways to pass the time.

Eighteen sighed and picked up her tablet, nested into her lounge and scrolled through the Central City Fashion Week looks. Damn, Deor looked good.

Eighteen trained from four-thirty to six, then dressed, applied her makeup and and styled her hair to be in the office by seven thirty. The traffic into the city was bad by eight as Eighteen sat at her desk, and she preferred to avoid it than let it grind on her, inevitably making her angry. She balanced a nude leather Louboutins on her toe under her desk - as soft as butter and her favourite pair, they'd been an investment when she'd started working for Channel.

"Lazuli?" called tall, skinny, elegant, aging Audrey from the doorway. "A minute?"

"Sure," Eighteen said, smoothing out her voice for the workplace. "Take a seat."

"You got my email?"

"About Central City Fashion Week, right? What about Prue?"

"Prue's come down with the mumps, she's taken several weeks off – you're the next best thing, Lazuli. We need you to go. Otherwise, we'll be forced to send the intern."

Eighteen hesitated. She'd attended Central City Fashion Week last year with Prue – a great fashion writer, bottle-blonde and lover of martinis – and the people, the cameras, it had all been too much. And she'd have to do interviews, not just with the designers, but as a representative of Channel for television.

"You can do it," Eighteen suggested.

"I've had enough Fashion Weeks to last me a lifetime," Audrey laughed. "This one is yours. And that's final. What's there to think about? A paid week in Central City, you'll have the greatest time! They're leaving tomorrow."

Eighteen nodded as Audrey left, swallowing thickly. A crunch brought her attention down to her hand which was holding the now shattered drinking glass.

 _Shit_ , she thought. _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

Eighteen rushed down to the pharmacy on the corner. She bought a pack of hydrating formula, a new eyeliner brush, and a packet of do-it-yourself hair dye in the shade Cinnamon Brown.

In the pristine bathroom of her apartment, Eighteen chugged the hydrating formula, enjoying its overly sweet taste, and shook the bottle of hair dye. Parting her hairline, she applied a thick line of sticky brown mixture to her platinum blonde hair. She ran it through her locks, applying it evenly.

"Leave for twenty minutes," she muttered and threw the empty applicator bottle into the rubbish.

Rushing into her bedroom, Eighteen grabbed her suitcase and began packing – first the white Channel power suit, her Jimmy Choo cerulean blue pumps, her Dior dress from Madrid Fashion Week (what a score), three pairs of Manalo Blaniks, a Burberry Trench, and was about to reach for the Gucci shirt when the timer for her hair dye rang.

Eighteen lathered up her hair and watched as the water turned a deep brown and swirled down the drain. When the product was rinsed, Eighteen grabbed her hairdryer. Damp, her hair looked dark – maybe a little darker than before. But as it dried, Eighteen's grip on the hairdryer grew stronger. Her hair was still the same platinum blonde as before. The same length. The same colour. The same everything.

The hairdryer was crushed in her hands.

She was still the same!

She'd be like this! Forever!

"No!" she wailed, throwing her ruined hairdryer at the wall in a rage.

There wasn't anything she could do – not tan or grow her hair, or dye, or change, or gain weight or get a little shorter, or shave her legs or pluck her eyebrows or paint her nails. This was her, in this perpetual state of sameness, forever. Eighteen swallowed back her tears and bent over to pick up the pieces of her hairdryer, cursing at herself for ruining her expensive hairdryer and not having more control. That would not do.

* * *

Bulma Briefs was a brilliant, beautiful, powerful and fashionable woman. That's why getting a first row seat to the Deorshow at Central City Fashion Week would never be a problem. Having Vegeta watch Trunks for the three days she could afford to be away, well, that was a different matter entirely. That took work. Hard work. Still, she was here, sipping on champagne and flicking through the leaflet as the last few people settled in for the show.

Music began to play and Bulma looked up to the runway, only to notice a woman gracefully slipping past a few celebrities to take her seat by a Vogue Editor. Bulma frowned – shoulder length platinum hair, those eyes – she remembered them.

 _Eighteen?_

The lights dimmed and the stage lit up, hiding the woman from Bulma's view. As the first few models began to walk out, Bulma tried to focus on the show. But what was Eighteen doing here? And with Vogue royalty, no less. How long had it been since the end of the cell games – eighteen months, maybe; Trunks was about to turn two.

As the DeorShow finished, the lights flooded the room again and Bulma craned her neck only to see an empty chair besides the Vogue Editor.

Slinking across the room, Bulma approached the editor as she was scribbling notes out onto a notepad.

"Great show, huh?" said Bulma.

The editor looked up from her notepad, frowned and then jumped out of her seat.

"Oh, Miss Briefs!" she stuttered. "Rachel Adams, Vogue North America."

"Bulma Briefs, Capsule Corp."

"I know who you are," said Rachel, licking her lips. "Your piece last year for Rolling Stone was amazing. I'm here for a recap on the DeorShow but my editor would love an interview with you, I know it – would you be interested at all?"

"Maybe another time," Bulma said, then paused, "Actually… I think we can work out a trade. How much do you know about that blonde woman sitting beside you?"

Rachel looked to the now-empty seat beside her.

* * *

Eighteen had noticed her the moment she'd entered form the top of the staircase, her blue head down as she flicked through the catalogue. Eighteen's legs had seized. Her throat had grown tight. Bulma.

Eighteen wasn't scared of anyone, especially not of Bulma. But she was scared. Scared of being found-out, of identified and named and losing. She was free and seeing Bulma was like being dragged back kicking and screaming.

Eighteen had slinked down the stairs, looking for her seat, which of course was front-row. Three seats in from the aisle, she'd had to sneak past the son of a up-and-coming fashion brand, a wedding dress designer, and an editor of Vogue North America.

And when she sat down, Eighteen looked up to see Bulma Brief's eyes, almost as blue as her own, staring right at her.

 _Shit fuck shit fuck._

And then the lights dimmed.

 _Shit fuck shit fuck._

The night was dark and cold and the streets of inner Central City were busy. Eighteen escaped into an alleyway before taking into the air. The city was suffocating. She tugged at her high collar and loosened the buttons. Soon the clouds gave way to darkness with nothing but space above her. To the east, the sun was rising over Italy. She flew towards it.

Turkey was a balmy twenty degrees when she arrived. Mount Ararat was tranquil, green and warm. Eighteen sighed and laid against the grass, closing her eyes. At times like this, she wish she slept. Wished she could fall into that void of nothingness for just a few hours. How was it possible to feel tired when you were programmed with unending energy? She was tired of this life, whatever it was.

Eighteen thought of Seventeen, wondered if it would be any better if she was with him. If they were together again. She doubted it. It'd only lead to chaos. That was the way they'd been programmed, both as android and as twins.

"Good place to think," came a rough voice from above her.

Eighteen's eyes shot open.

"You!" she hissed to the green face hovering above her. "Come to check up on me, huh?"

"Was in the area," said Picollo simply.

Eighteen sat up, glaring towards the Namekian.

"Yeah, well, get lost," she snorted. "I'm fine."

Picollo watched Eighteen silently for a long moment before sitting on the grass beside her.

"What the – I told you to get lost," she huffed, getting up to leave.

"Sit," ordered Picollo.

"You think you can order me around now?" hissed Eighteen. "You and everyone else it seems."

Picollo grabbed Eighteen's sleeve, yanking her back down.

"I once also wished to kill Goku."

Eighteen rolled her eyes. No, she wasn't about to do this sap-story thing.

"Again," she drawled. "You and everyone else, it seems."

"It was hard," Picollo said. "To find a purpose outside of growing stronger. When there was no challenge to grow stronger for. When I killed Goku-,"

"Wait," Eighteen interrupted. "Back up, _you_ killed Goku?"

Picollo hesitated. "Yes."

"No way. Shut up," she laughed. "How?"

"I prefer not to discuss it," replied Picollo.

Eighteen sighed and leaned back. "Typical," she groaned. "So what are you doing out here if you're not making tabs on me?"

Picollo remained silent for a moment before he seemed to relax and crossed his legs.

"You are not the only one seeking tranquillity," he admitted.

The cool wind blew against Eighteen's face. For a long time, she and Picollo sat side-by-side in silence. And then she said, "Yeah, well, I thought I had everything under control. And then I saw her."

"Who?"

"Bulma. That woman. She can take me apart if she wants." Eighteen shook her head. "Everything I'll ever do, someone is always going to be watching me. Waiting for me to screw up." Eighteen stood up. "I'm going home now."

"It's not always going to be like that," said Picollo.

Eighteen huffed. "I know you want to me my confidant, but that's not going to happen. We're a lot different, you and me. Too different." And then, Eighteen flew off. Picollo sighed, looked back to the rising sun before sitting down and returning to his meditation.

* * *

I am so sorry this took so long to get up but the servers had a few problems when I was logging on so this has been considerably delayed. But thank you for returning to read this story and following it. If you liked it, please take the time to leave a review, I appreciate it so much and they take less than 30 seconds. Thank you guys and see you all soon!


	4. IV: Unlikely

IV

Unlikely

Bulma, as always, was a wonderful host. She threw great parties and Trunk's second birthday was no different. He'd had a two-tier cake, and Bulma knew, he'd devour on his own if no one was there to stop him. Perhaps the only person who hadn't shown up for the tot's birthday was his own father, but Bulma didn't want to bring that up at all. But she did hear Yamcha grumbling a bit about it. He seemed to always want to get back together around occasions and holidays, Christmas and birthdays and the like. But she wasn't going to let any of that get her down today.

In the playpen with with Goten, Trunks was having a great time. Bunny was also in her element serving drinks and chatting away with some of her book club friends. Gohna and Dr. Briefs were in a deep discussion, shifting between theoretical physics, archaeology in Iran and the androids.

Oh! The androids.

Bulma sipped her champagne as she scanned the party scene, finally locating Krillin playing catch with Yamcha. Putting down her drink, Bulma approached the pair.

"Sorry, Krillin, could I talk to you for a second?" she asked as Krillin caught the baseball.

"Yeah," he said, casting a look to Yamcha, who shrugged. "What about?"

"I'll only be a second, I promise – let's go sit down somewhere."

Bulma found a small garden chair and table that wasn't being used and sat down. Krillin wiped his hands down his pants nervously, pursing his lips.

"So what's this all about, Bulma."

"Well," she started, inhaling. "I was in France last weekend, for Central City Fashion Week and all. Well I, I could be wrong, but I swear I saw Eighteen there. The android."

Krillin perked up. "Eighteen?" he cried. "Really?"

"Keep it down," Bulma said. "Anwyay, so I asked around, and apparently she goes by the name Lazuli – according to Gero's imprints, that was her original name."

"Wait, wait," Krillin said, shaking his head. "So what's she doing in France?"

"Working for Channel, apparently."

"And her brother?"

Bulma shrugged. "Hey, I don't keep tabs on them or anything. Who knows where he is. But, well, I thought given the circumstances, maybe you'd like to know she's living a normal life."

"Yeah," said Krillin, finding a torn piece of napkin on the table and rolling it under his finger. "Yeah I guess. Thanks. It's good to know."

Bulma frowned and crossed her arms. "Sure doesn't sound like it. You really liked her, didn't you."

Krillin shrugged and found that suddenly his knees were awfully interesting. "She wasn't like any other girl I dated… It's been a year and a half since the end of the Games. I shouldn't be thinking about her so much."

Bulma pursed her lips. She could relate, at least. "Hey," she laughed. "I know what it's like to love a bad guy. I know Eighteen isn't at all like Vegeta, but you know what I mean. It can be tough. They're unreadable. Unpredictable. And for a long time you think you can fix them, but you have to accept that you can't. And that can be hard." Bulma put her hand on Krillin's shoulder. "But they'll come back sooner or later. They need you to know that you trust them."

Krillin shook his head, rubbing his forehead. "I thought I'd be happy with her living her life as she wanted. But deep down, I knew I'd be happiest if that meant being with me." He shrugged. "It's hard. Thinking constantly about where she is."

At that moment, Bunny took the opportunity to swing around towards the sullen-looking two, offering a tray of beverages.

"Lighten up, sweeties," she chirped. "It's a birthday party – happy days."

"Thanks Mum," Bulma said, taking two glasses of champagne from the tray.

"Aw, I really shouldn't," Krillin said. "I promised Roshi I'd clean the gutters this weekend."

"What a life," she snorted and clinked their glasses together. "Liven up, Krillin."

Krillin drank his champagne, scanning around the party again. Yamcha, it seemed, had ventured inside to watch a baseball match on television. Chi-Chi was breastfeeding the nine-month old Goten under the shade of a tree. A few people were standing by the bar and talking. Krillin cleared his throat.

"So… any chance of another baby, Bulma?"

The heiress scoffed and rolled her eyes, getting up from the chair, "Unlikely." Then she turned in to Krillin. "Coming inside? I think they're doing karaoke."

The karaoke lasted late into the night. Eventually, Yamcha convinced everyone to keep the party going in downtown West City and Krillin, with eight glasses of champagne and as the winner of beer pong under his belt, felt confident enough to go with him. Going out with Yamacha, one of three things were bound to happen. One, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, they'd have a good time at the bar and Krillin would go home. Two, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, and bring another for Krillin and they'd both score (that was the best time). Or three, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, forget about Krillin and go home, leaving Krillin at the bar thinking his friend had just gone outside for a cigarette (of which he claimed to Bulma he'd quit ). Third was the most likely option and at one-thirty in the morning, it had happened to Krillin again.

The bar was nice. It was dark. It was warm, and it was a long way away from Kame house. Krillin fidgeted over his drink. He'd promised he'd be back by now, but what did he have waiting for him? A perverted pig, an old man, and a talking turtle.

"Another round, sir?"

"Sure," Krillin nodded.

"We're closing up soon, thought I'd let ya know," said the bartender, pouring another gin and soda.

"Appreciated."

"And for you?"

Krillin looked up to the bartender and frowned. Who was he talking to? But the bartender wasn't looking at him, but at the woman strolling toward the bar and taking a seat beside him.

"A glass of white wine," she said, not taking her eyes from Krillin. "And hey."

"H-hey yourself," Krillin stuttered, and then turned back to the bar. "Um, on my tab please. I'll pay for it."

Eighteen smiled. Her hair fell from behind her ear and fanned across her face.

"Sweet of you," she said.

"How did you find me?"

"Ki."

"Oh, right," Krillin laughed. "That, um, that was dumb of me. What… what are you doing here? Bulma said, she um, saw you in Central City."

Eighteen turned to her drink and swished the wine around the glass before taking a sip.

"I don't know. I thought I was on my way to South City," she said. "But I felt you down here. Thought I'd say hi."

Krillin swallowed. "Well, H-hi."

Eighteen gave a small smile. "Hi."

Krillin took a large swig of his drink, hoping it'd calm his frayed nerves – but on his tenth drink, he worried this was some form of illusion from his depraved mind. A kind of alcohol-induced dream. The way she looked, it had to be a dream. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen – that hair, those eyes, her smile. The small amount of eyeliner she'd applied to her cat-like eyes, and the cupid's bow of her lips. The way she pushed her hair from her eyes and behind her ear floored him every time.

"I think I'm dreaming," Krillin admitted in a gush.

"Why?" Eighteen asked.

He laughed nervously. "I mean you, coming here after all these months, wanting to see me, it's unlikely. This… all this. It doesn't happen to guys like me."

Eighteen frowned. "Guys like you?"

Krillin looked into his glass, counting the seeds left in the wedge of lime – 3, the same as wishes from the eternal dragon – wishing he hadn't aired his insecurities like that.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Short guy. Bald guy. Weak guy. Lives with a talking pig in the middle of the ocean guy."

"Oh yes," nodded Eighteen. "I remember now."

The bartender approached them again and Krillin almost screamed inside. Oh no, oh please, not now. Five more minutes, five more minutes! Eighteen hadn't even touched her wine.

"Sorry guys," he said, taking the empty glasses from them. "We're closing up."

Krillin fished out a note while Eighteen slid off the barstool, her glass untouched and still frosty. Hurriedly, he paid the bartender and followed Eighteen out onto the street.

"Where – where are you going now?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "Back to Central City."

Krillin swallowed thickly.

"Do you want to go out to dinner with me?" he blurted suddenly. The fear that Eighteen would just up and disappear for another year or five was very real, and he couldn't let the opportunity slip past him.

"I don't eat food," Eighteen deadpanned.

"You don't?" he replied. "Oh crap, I mean. Aw. Well. A movie? Or something like that."

"Something like that," Eighteen agreed.

The street was empty and quiet – it was an early Wednesday morning and few people were out so late. Eighteen hovered just above the pavement, about to take off.

"So is that a yes?" Krillin asked.

"Saturday."

"Oh wow, really?" Krillin grinned. "Saturday. Gotcha, got it. I'll pick you up."

"I'll meet you in the Central Square," Eighteen said. "At seven. On Saturday."

Krillin laughed nervously, "Right, right, because I don't know where you live exactly. But you do, so um, come around anytime."

"Anytime," Eighteen repeated. "Bye now."

"Yep, haha," Krillin laughed. "Bye."

Eighteen turned and shot up into the sky. The rush of cold air to Krillin's face was enough to pull him out of his stupor.

 _That really happened._

Nothing could stop Krillin jumping in the air for joy. The buzz remained on the short flight back to Kame House. He was giddy in anticipation, and unable to believe that he'd seen her tonight.

But the night air did much to sober him so when Krillin landed, his stomach was twisting in knots from the guilt. It was Android Eighteen – she'd killed hundreds of people, and from what he could tell from what Future Trunks had said, she'd had no remorse for the things she'd done. In this timeline, she'd been indirectly at fault for killing his best friend. She'd hurt his friends, killed his friends, and had wanted to hurt him at some point.

Krillin entered the Kame House more confused than elated. Everyone was sleeping, the house was dark. He chucked a glass of water by the sink, climbed the stairs, pulled off his shoes and shirt and slept in his underwear. A tropical breeze swayed the curtains through the room, but not even the soft sound of the waves lapping at the shore of the island calmed Krillin.

 _At seven. On Saturday,_ he reminded himself.


End file.
